It's been a while since I updated. School has been keeping me busy and I've also failed to find inspiration.

But I've finally found it again.

I was thinking back to the lyrics of one of my favorite songs, "No Surprises" by Radiohead. It's quite a lovely song. And what I noticed about the lyrics is how...fitting they are to Bruce Wayne's/Batman's life. And how I should write something about that, with the the lyrics coinciding. I did. I want to make it clear now that I incorporated the song lyrics into my writing and obviously do not own them.

Enjoy :)

P.S. Listen to the song when reading.

P.S.S. This takes place sometime during the Dark Knight.

P.S.S.S. I'm not even sure what I wrote.


A heart that's full up like a landfill

He sits immobile in his armchair, staring at nothing.

A job that slowly kills you

Everything is gray outside. The pillows in the sky. The earth. The air.

The fresh bruises from last night ache the parts of his body under pressure from sitting down. A few are visible on his legs, which his bathrobe fails to cover. Some are a mix of highlighter yellow and moldy green; those are the old ones. Unappealing but not too noticeable. Accustomed to.

Bruises that won't heal

Some are rich purple. A dark purple, like fresh, shiny wine stains soaked through pristine bedsheets. Those are the new ones. The ugliest ones. He resembles a white dog with a plethora of colored splotches.

Alfred wasn't home. He wanted to buy some groceries.

"Think you can do a few minutes without me, Master Wayne?"

He had just woken up after a hard night. Would he be alright?

He nodded languidly. "Yeah, you go ahead."

Alfred opened the front door. As he placed one foot past the threshold, he took one final look at Bruce.

And he wished he hadn't.

Because, by God, he'd never seen a more despondent face.

Bruce thought he might sit down for a while. He's tired.

So tired.

Alfred gave him a strange look this morning. Right before he stepped out the door, it's as if he wanted to say-

You look so tired unhappy

-something. Something like, "When will this end?"

Bring down the government

They don't, they don't speak for us

Bruce doesn't know. He doesn't know. But as long as the corrupt were lurking in the city, as long as he was needed, he wouldn't stop.

Alfred talked about how promising and happy life would be when it was all over.

I'll take a quite life

But would it? After everything-

"-it wouldn't be easy to 'get back into the swing of things', Alfred," he mutters the rest of his thought to himself. Despite how adamant he acts, however, he knows Alfred is right. He also knows, although the butler hadn't expressed the thought, that it is a poisonous job.

A handshake of carbon monoxide

A job that might ruin him. But he is willing to take that risk. Like Harvey. Like Gordon. And maybe, one day, Gotham wouldn't need him anymore. And Rachel would be waiting. He closes his eyes, imagining it.

No alarms and no surprises

No alarms and no surprises

There isn't a sound throughout the house to disturb him.

Silent

He only hears the even inhales and exhales of his breath.

Silent

He tries not to think about the upcoming night. He tries not to think about the previous night.

He tries. But his grasp on hope is like a small, fragile light in a sea of darkness. It's not strong enough. It doesn't satisfy.

His eyes open. He realizes that he doesn't remember a life before the mask. Well, of course he remembers the images, but not the feelings.

This is my final fit

Everyone has those moments when their caught up in unusual or unfamiliar feelings. After a book. After a movie. After a revelation.

But it all goes away, and they return to their regular cycle of emotions. Familiar. More comfortable. More real.

Where am I? Bruce thinks. Why haven't I come back?

He's been in his irregular pack of emotions for a while now. He's been in this world for a while now.

It's like he was sleepwalking every night.

Dreams have a specific recipe, you know.

They're where you're not you.

Where unimaginable things happen.

Fast.

And when you wake up-

My final bellyache

-you're tired.

You can't open your eyes. Not yet.

You still feel the dream.

You hear the piercing, incessant ringing of the alarm-

With no alarms and no surprises

-and your arm searches for it blindly; desperately.

You think back to the dream-

No alarms and no surprises

-and try to recollect what it was all about but it slips-

No alarms-

-slips-

-and no surprises-

-slips-

-please

-away.

You turn the bloody ringer off. Finally.

You get out of bed and Alfred tells you he's going out for groceries and then you find yourself with nothing to do. Eventually, you wander into one the offices in the manor and sit yourself in that dust-gathering (Alfred doesn't make visits to unused rooms weekly), pretentious and uncomfortable piece of furniture called the armchair. And you try to remember that dream. You try to make sense of what was real and what was not.

That's where dreams get you.

He sits, his back aching.

The room is illuminated by the light (the gray light) coming from the window. His attention is briefly caught by the waltzing dust in the air, slowing undulating down.

Such a pretty house

Hour by hour it layers itself onto the same dark wood of the floor, table, drawer chests and shelves, as well as the miscellaneous objects upon them. The smooth, solid and deep-colored covers of the books. Papers. The soft, faded carpet.

And such a pretty garden

It settles on Bruce. He's showering in filth.

No alarms and no surprises

And he wonders when enough will gather to make him sick.

(let me out of here)

He wonders if, maybe, one little speck of it might sneak into his throat and choke him.

No alarms and no surprises

Would he mind?

(let me out of here)

His eyes are getting heavy and he keeps wondering.

No alarms-

He keeps wondering...

-and no surprises

He keeps wondering...

-please.